


All Things Must Pass

by siliconpine



Category: Bob Dylan (Musician), George Harrison (Musician), The Travelling Wilburys (Band)
Genre: (even if they're both completely oblivious), 5+1 Things, All rolled into one, First Dates, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Panic Attacks, also george and bob are trolls
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-20
Updated: 2019-02-20
Packaged: 2019-10-31 23:17:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17858894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/siliconpine/pseuds/siliconpine
Summary: The five times their proposals weren't serious and the one time it was.





	All Things Must Pass

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Aldrig](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aldrig/gifts).



Bob is laying on the floor, George, above him, with his legs on the couch and his head dangling off the edge. Next to him, Roy is sitting like a normal human being. They’ve just finished recording Runaway by Del Shannon, and Tom and Jeff are sitting on the floor, throwing around ideas about what song they should do next.  
“That’ll be the Day?” asks Tom.  
“Maybe Baby,” counters Jeff.  
“Aww, are you calling me baby, Jeffrey?”  
“It Doesn’t Matter Anymore,” Jeff grins, and Tom pouts at him.  
“How bout Blue Angel?” Tom says.  
“Heyyy, only I’m allowed to suggest Roy’s songs, he’s mine!” grumbles Jeff.  
“I thought you were mine.” Tom pretends to wipe away a tear.  
“I’m George’s,” says Roy, with that half smirk he does.  
Bob throws a cushion at him. Tom and Jeff oooooh in unison.  
“Careful Roy,” says Jeff, “You’re making Bob jealous. Just be mine, believe me, it’s much easier than going through him. He may be tiny, but he’s fierce.” Bob throws another cushion.  
“Oh, all right then Jeff, but only if you sweep me off my feet and ravish me before midnight under the full moon.”  
Tom gasps overdramatically, “Et tu, Roy? Et tu?”  
“Believe me Tom, it’s only because George won’t have me.”  
Bob reaches for another cushion but finds there aren’t any left so he settles for doing the very mature alternative and sticks his tongue out at Roy.  
George speaks for the first time. “Let’s sing Why Do Fools Fall In Love.”  
Bob jerks his head up and nearly collides with George who grins at him upside down. Does he remember? He must, with that knowing glint in his eye. Bob flushes, his neck heating up as George strokes his cheek teasingly with one hand.  
“Bob wants to, don’t you Bobby?” An angelic smile there’s no way he could refuse.  
“Y-Yeah sure,” he stutters, his breath catching in his throat as George’s pinky catches at the corner of his mouth and briefly slips inside.  
“Royyyy,” whines Jeff, “Bob and George are at it again, make them stop!”  
“Oh so it’s fine when you want to ravish him, but not if it’s Bob and George?” grouses Tom.  
“Yes, thank you Tom,” smirks George. A beat of silence. “So are we doing Why Do Fools Fall In Love?”  
He gets a chorus of agreements, and they get to work.

 

It was early 1968  
Bob relishes in the anonymity of their disguises. Actually, disguises might not be the right word, because they’re so flimsy he wonders why nobody has seen through them. George is sporting a ridiculously scruffy fake beard and a dark blue beanie, while all Bob has done is combed his hair in a way that’s tamed his curls a bit, but they’re already beginning to poof out again.  
They’re walking down a worn path to a cafe George has wanted to bring him to for quite some time, and once they get inside Bob sees why. The first impression he gets of it is that it’s very George-like and cozy. Then he mentally asks himself since when has he started associated George with coziness? Is that considered creepy? He cuts off that train of thought before it goes to far and turns his attention back to his surroundings. The interior is all wood, lit with warm light, and everything seems to exude a soft glow from it. There’s a man in the corner with a guitar strumming a mindless little tune, and place smells of freshly roasted coffee beans. It’s so unlike those diners with bright red couches, and black and white checkered floors where everything you touched turned your hands sticky that Bob has to take a moment to process it.  
Next to him, George grins slightly nervously.  
“Like it?”  
“Yeah,” he grins back, hoping the lack of words appropriately conveys his appreciation. They slide into opposite ends of a booth and a waitress brings over two menus. Falling into a comfortable silence, they flip through them as they decide what to eat.  
They talk about things in general. Bob skips around the details of The Motorcycle Accident. George avoids talking about the rising tension within the Beatles. They find common ground, and even with short sentences of few words, they manage to make the conversation flow smoothly. He steals looks at George from behind his food when he’s distracted and memorizes the lines of his face, still familiar and comforting even behind the fake beard.  
The food is mostly gone, already paid for, and George leans forward, his eyes twinkling, as if there’s a secret he wants to share. Their noses are almost touching, and Bob can’t help but grin crookedly as well even though he has no idea what’s going on.  
“You see that corner with the guitars?” Bob nods. “Anyone is allowed to play there as long as they aren’t too terrible.” He can definitely see where this is going. “Let’s give it a go and see if they recognize us. We can even sing.”  
“Have I told you that I love your mind?” He asks instead of answering. George beams at him then pretends to think.  
“Hmm, no I don’t think you have.”  
“Well, consider this the first of many times to come then. Now, let’s go see if anyone is as big a fan of your voice as I am.” He stands.  
“Really?” George is still sitting, looking up at Bob with a look he can’t place, “you like my voice?”  
“Of course I do Georgie.” Emotions. Scary. Must Avoid. He does what he always does and attempts to lightens the situation. “Now are you going to get up, or do I have to brave the dark and scary world alone?” George sees through the attempt for what it is but lets it slide, which he's eternally grateful for.  
Bob picks up one of the guitars and plays a few chords to familiarize himself with the strings. It doesn’t need tuning, but the E string is getting dangerously thin. He turns to George. “What should we play?”  
“I’ll sing one of yours, you sing one of mine and then we ask for requests,” he grins impishly, “We’ll see if anyone notices anything.”  
Bob thinks for a moment and strums the first few chords of “I’ll Be Your Baby Tonight,” substituting the harmonica with the guitar as well as possible and George starts singing.  
“Close your eyes, close the door.” Bob thumps his heel along with the rhythm and contributes to the melody where possible.  
“You don’t have to worry anymore.” George sings it differently from him he notices, it seems almost more... pleading? He must be reading this wrong.  
“I’ll be your baby tonight.”  
They go through the whole song and Bob loses himself in the smoothness of George’s voice and the lull of the guitar beneath his hands. When it’s over, they get some scattered applause. Seems like their game hasn’t been given up yet. He cheers internally.  
Bob wonders what George will have him sing, and he turns to look, but George is turned at an angle that looks like he’s trying to avoid his gaze and oh shit did he do something wrong? Was it the song? Should he have chosen another? The strum of George’s guitar drags him out of his anxiety as he recognizes the opening chords of “I Need You.” It must not have been the choice of song then, because this has a similar theme to it but now he can see the side profile of George’s face again and there’s that same indecipherable look from when he told him he liked his voice. He mentally tells himself to stop trying to read so deep into everything and starts singing.  
“You don’t realize how much I need you.” He almost startles at his own voice, smoother and higher since he’s quit smoking. He sees George’s back seem to loosen as he shifts in his seat towards Bob. He turns as well so they’re facing each other more than the audience.  
“Love you all the time, and never leave you.” George sings the line with him, their voices blending together.  
“Please come on back to me, I’m lonely as can be.” For the first time, Bob notices just how prominent the lines at the edges of George’s eyes are when they aren’t hidden behind his hair.  
“I need you.” His eyes. They’re dark and depthless and burn so brightly, so full of life. But there’s pain there as well. He thinks back to that Oscar Wilde quote, “behind every exquisite thing that existed, there was something tragic.” It suits him.  
They finish the song and George looks at him with a shy sort of pleasure as there’s more applause. He can feel a blush creeping up his throat, which definitely shouldn’t be happening because it’s only a song right? It’s only a song and there’s nothing there, no meaning behind it. It’s only a song they’re singing to mess around with the other people in the diner, and if that blush peeks out of his collar and George sees it, he’ll have to murder himself. Still, it is a secret only the two of them will ever know. Or maybe it’ll be more than the two of them soon but nobody’s caught on yet, and Bob relishes in it.  
A man in his mid-thirties calls out, getting their attention, and he tamps down on the surge of jealousy threatening to rise as George turns away. What on earth is wrong with him? He catches the tail of the request - why do fools fall in love - and mentally berates himself.  
George takes on the lead vocal, and even though there isn’t much backup in the original, Bob sings along anyway. It’s a cheerful song, and Bob plays it less rock and roll and more country than the original. It’s testament to George’s proficiency at guitar that he manages to adopt to the style easily and even add more to it. Bob finds himself smiling, an honest smile that he hasn’t felt in a long, long time outside of George’s presence. It’s a nice change.  
“Why do fools fall in love, why do birds sing so gay?” Bob tries not to focus on the first part too much, shoving those thoughts into a corner of his mind he hopes he won’t touch on. The second part though. It’s less loaded. It feels less like making a leap into unknown territory. He lets himself float, coming up with little parallels between George and birds. Robins specifically, the beauty of their song and the vibrance of their presence. He’d be lost without the little joys.  
“Love is a losing game, love can be a shame.” He wonders briefly why that man had wanted this song to be played.  
“I know of a fool you see.” He can feel the palpable energy George is pouring into the song.  
“For that fool is me,” despite the lightheartedness of the melody and tune, George adds both darkness and intenseness.  
He notices a change. The little corner the two of them are tucked into is getting more looks, and people are whispering, probably unable or unwilling to believe that The George Harrison of the Beatles is here in this tiny diner playing to them on an old guitar.  
“Tell me why?” He hits the high note perfectly, and Bob joins in again.  
“Why, why why? Tell me why.” Sometimes he’s reverent of George’s voice. To hear that silky tone blending with his own is something he’ll never forget, even if he wanted to. He can already tell that tonight, he’ll go over it in his head, running through it and revelling in it until he drifts off.  
George manages to turn the saxophone part into an amazing guitar solo and he stops playing himself just to watch and listen. He might just be a little bit in love with those fingers. And definitely nothing else, he admonishes himself firmly. Another part of him pipes up, except for his personality, and his eyes and his cheekbones and the way he--. He cuts himself off.  
As George sings the next verse, he scans the room. The audience seems to have tripled, and people seem to be more sure now. He wonders if they’ll bother waiting until the end of the song to confirm their suspicions. He feels a twinge of annoyance at an event that hasn’t even happened. He hopes they wait. He doesn’t want this to end so soon, but he knows it must. Please just give them until the end of the song.  
He decides to make the most of it and starts singing again.  
“Why does my heart skip a crazy beat?” His own heart thumps in his chest, full of George and joy and... dare he say something more?  
“For I know it will reach defeat.” Nope, definitely not something more. Just a purely platonic feeling because anyone who met George would love him. He’s not immune to his charm of course, but it’s obviously just a friendly feeling and nothing more.  
“Tell me why, tell me why?” He can at least be grateful they’ll make it until the end of the song. Giving him an experience he’ll treasure. Hopefully they can leave without attracting any of the press.  
“Why do fools fall in love?”

 

The audience swarms their corner, once cozy, now claustrophobic. It’s too loud and too bright and there’s too much of everything, the noise and lights crushing him under them. He focuses on breathing.  
Everything after that happens in a trancelike state, the bright colors seeming to blur together and sound becoming muffled. He feels like he’s moving through syrup. This hasn’t happened to him in a while and detachedly he wonders what’s caused it. He wonders if other people experience it as well, or if it’s just his way of coping.  
He can’t stand large groups of people, never could, and he knows that in reality, there aren’t that many - after all it’s just a diner - and his fear is just stupid, but he hasn’t been in a crowd at all since the Blonde on Blonde tour. Anxiety nips at his heels, and he tries to beat it back and keep it at bay.  
George. George is safe. He focuses on his presence in front of him, and the panic subsides a bit.  
He pushes past people and avoids questions. They jostle him around and he can feel them pressing in from every direction. He follows close behind George, wishing he could grab onto the back of his shirt, but that would be pathetic. He’s not a child.  
Someone grabs his arm. The sounds rush back. His vision sharpens. His breathing quickens dangerously. He smells sweat and grease as his senses are assaulted all at once. For a split second, he panics, and actually does reach out for George’s shirt. He skims the fabric with his fingertips before dropping his hand as if he’s been burned, but the damage has been done. George turns, and he sees the anger in his eyes, and oh shit, he’s ruined their friendship, but then he realizes it’s not directed at him, but at the man squeezing him arm. Said man lets go at George’s glare, and Bob is relieved, but more relieved that he hasn’t ruined one of the best things in his life. He doesn’t know what he would do without George.  
They push through some more people, and he doesn’t think he can go much further before the panic completely overtakes him. He sways, but regains his footing. He can’t break down here though, he can’t, he can’t, he can’t. A whimper lodges itself in his throat, but he swallows hard and doesn’t let it escape, before finally, finally, they’re outside in the cool night air.  
He lets George herd him gently around the diner, to the side of the building where people can’t see them as they pour out.  
“Bob, love, I need you to breathe for me, can you do that?” He nods frantically and tries to but can’t. The whimper escapes. Do what George says, he tells himself, George will protect him. He chants it in his head like a mantra. George will protect him.  
He sucks in a huge breath that rattles in his lungs.  
“Easy there,” says George, his eyes impossibly soft, “don’t be too harsh on yourself. Here,” he places Bob’s palm over his chest, “with me.”  
In.  
Out.  
George will protect him.  
In.  
Out.  
George’s heart is under his palm.  
In.  
Out.  
He focuses on the warmth.  
In.  
Out.  
He clutches George hand and presses it firmly to his own chest.  
In.  
Out.  
His heart is in George’s palm.  
In.  
Out.  
The panic recedes. His head is finally clear.  
But he realizes what he’s done. A simple outing, one anyone would be able to handle, and he’s ruined it. He lets go of George’s hand, lets it drop, and looks down ashamed. His throat starts closing up again.  
There’s a gentle hand on his chin, and he allows his head to be tilted upwards. He meets George’s eyes, and blurts out a “sorry” at the exact same time George does. Wait… What does George have to be sorry for? Before George can say anything else he speaks, the words rushing out of him.  
“I spoiled it, I’m sorry. I can’t even get this right. All you wanted was some food and I couldn’t even–” George cuts him off with a finger to his lips.  
“Bob, this is my completely on me. Singing to the crowd was my idea. And you definitely don’t have to be sorry for being human.”  
But-”  
“And I didn’t only want to come here to get dinner,” this time it’s George who looks down, “I wanted to spend time with you.”  
Bob opens his mouth to speak but can’t seem to find anything to say. He closes it and settles for smiling helplessly at George. God he’d do anything for this man.  
Their moment is broken when they hear voices coming around the edge. They share a look.  
“Now what do we do?” asks George.  
“We run.” He grins wildly and takes off.  
Christ, he’s needed this. The night wind in his face blows away the last of his worries. The hard packed dirt beneath him, the stars twinkling dimly above him, and George next to him fills him with euphoria.  
He’s flying. Everything around him seems blurred. Everything except George. Bob laughs, loud and joyful, the sound torn away from him as soon as it leaves his mouth, but it seems to linger on in his ears. Eyes shining in the moonlight, George beams at him.  
They run and run and run, until the diner is lost in the distance. They run until they can run no more, until they’re both doubled over panting in the clean crisp air.  
He sucks in a huge breath that rattles in his lungs.  
The rest of the walk to Bob’s house is silent, but the two of them keep stealing glances at each other. Bob can’t stop smiling, and he feels giddy on the high of it all.  
It’s colder and the stars are clearly visible when they arrive. Bob leads George to the back gate instead of going in through the front, and he follows, but questioningly. His confidence wavers a bit. What if he doesn’t agree?  
“Can we stay in the backyard a bit longer? I don’t want to go back inside yet,” he half mumbles, not daring to look up at his reaction.  
“Of course, Bob,” George actually sounds like he wants to, and Bob lets out a silent breath of relief, “I’d love to.”  
George sits and leans against the trunk of a tree, Bob sliding down next to him. He feels weary after such an emotionally taxing day. Above him, he hears a robin, still singing despite the late hour. There’s a ukulele, one of the many that’s been left with him, and Bob hands it to George, amused at his friend’s antics.  
“You know me so well, we’re practically married, Bob darling.”  
He huffs out a laugh.  
“Why don’t you marry me then? Just get it over with.” George pulls him in closer and hugs him tight with one arm.  
“I’d love to, Bobby, have you got a ring?”  
“Oh damn, knew I was missing something. Another time then,” he sighs overdramatically and nuzzles in closer, basking in George’s warmth.  
“Bob, I can’t play like this,” he whines.  
“Then don’t,” he grins playfully, but is already pushing himself up, secretly glum.  
“No don’t do that,” George pulls him back, “just come closer. And sit here,” he pats the space between his legs.  
Bob willingly obliges, and crawls over. It’s comfortable like this, his head pillowed on George’s chest. He can feel each breath, rising up and down beneath him, and the vibration of the ukulele chords travel through George. He could fall asleep like this, but there’s one thing that’s still nagging at him. He speaks.  
“You know you don’t have to apologize for proposing to sing. That was my favorite part,” and indeed it was, even with the almost-panic attack induced afterwards by the crowd, their song is still set apart from those moments. He can still remember the way George’s voice wrapped itself around him and the way his fingers danced over the guitar strings as he closes his eyes.  
Behind him, there’s a sharp intake of breath, and the bright cheerful strumming stops for a moment. He feels the brush of fingers on his cheek, then they’re gone. He drifts off to the sound of the ukulele duetting with the robin.

**Author's Note:**

> You can find this all on my tumblr btw at https://siliconpine.tumblr.com/


End file.
